Classic Short Stories Destiel
by Speary
Summary: This is my attempt at getting over writer's block. This will be a series of classic short stories that have been given a dose of Destiel. You know the stories, now you'll see these tales through the lens of our favorite hunter and angel. The first tale is going to be a take on the classic story, "The Lady or the Tiger."


**AN: Hello all, this is not the sequel to Cas, the King of Karaoke. Instead, this is my attempt at getting over writer's block. I decided to perform a few exercises involving classic short stories. The plan is, that whenever I am having writer's block, I will take a classic short story and convert it to a Destiel story. This first piece is a twist on "The Lady or the Tiger" by Frank Stockton. The italicized portions are quoted from the original and the paragraphs follow the plot lines of the original for the most part. Enjoy.**

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><p><em>In the very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammelled, as became the half of him which was barbaric.<em> He was a ruler of such ignoble ideals that it was all that anyone could do but to agree with his ever blooming fancies. He had ideas, grand or otherwise, and the masses would coo and bray with delight at each new pronouncement. He was a man to be feared and sometimes even respected. For he was a man that enjoyed the simple act of crushing down rough places and making the world around him entirely what he thought that it should be. There were no meandering paths in his world, no crooked lines. His world was entirely straight and even and predictable. Well, mostly.

Some of his ideas, though, were not entirely original. Some of his ideas found their ways into his realm via more circuitous routes from distant lands and people. One such idea was that of the public arena. In the distant lands, one might be so lucky as to see the feats of valor and acts of barbarism that could raise up a man of peasant origins onto the pedestals of the great heroes. The king's arena, though, was one not to be so easily compared to that of the arenas found in those other lands. No. This arena brought forth a new level of refinement and culture, that most would truly envy.

The arena was not built for such trifles as war games nor was it used to settle religious conflicts, as there was only one religion for the king's people. Instead, the arena took on a far more noble role. It became the site at which the ultimate justice could be meted out. For no land could be considered truly civilized without the beauty of law and justice played out for the edification of the masses.

In this place of dark passages, high walls, and glorious viewing galleries, the men and women of the land could gather together to see idealism in action. When a broken law or other such behavior managed to draw the attention of the king, it would take no amount of effort to send the subject accused of such reprehensible behaviors to the arena to seek justice.

When all of the masses had gathered and the king had raised his hands to the gathered crowds in recognition, the subject would be led into the arena from a small opening below. On the far end of the arena the subject would be presented with two doors, both alike in all of their ways. It would be the task of the subject to approach these doors and to open whichever one he felt compelled to choose. There would be no aid or influence. He would receive no encouragement beyond the hand that would propel him forth from the first door. There would be no departure or dithering about. There was only the choice, only the doors, and what was beyond the doors. Beyond the doors, in the dark were the subject's fates. For behind one door crouched a tiger, fearsome and hungry, ready to pounce on him in the instant that the door was opened as a price for the subject's guilt. When guilt was determined, though, the people still mourned, for they were a civilized people. They rang the bells and sang out the songs of sorrow before slowly marching their tear-stained faces back to their homes.

But, if innocence were determined, the result was entirely different. For if the subject selected the other door, a maiden would appear. She would be dressed in white and would represent the perfect complement to the man that had selected her door. She would emerge to the glad cries of triumph emanating from the crowds, and she and the subject would be joyously wed. It did not matter that the subject may have already had a wife, children, or even an object of his own affections. No, these are not matters that would concern the king one bit. The pageantry of the wedding was what mattered, so without a moment of consideration, the man and his bride would be forever united right there in the arena. Flowers would be thrown at their feet and the melodies of the bells and pipes would lead them out of the arena into the world again only now as man and wife.

There was no question that this was fair. The king in all of his semi-barbaric ways could not be questioned. For the decision of the criminal's fate rested solely in his hands. It was a question of fate and also of free will. For the accused, if innocent could choose the door of marriage and escape the fate of the tiger's jaws. There was also the entertainment that was afforded to the masses. One must not discount that. All was determined so permanently and neatly that there was really no way that one could dare to question the judgements of the king.

Because the masses accepted the king's edicts, it seemed, that there would never be a change. He had given them a wealth of pleasing entertainment and the arena created a sense of community. They were the masses, and no one liked to break free from the norm, the mob. There was safety and happiness in conformity and collectivism.

The semi-barbaric king, as it turned out, had a son, a man as promising as all of the king's semi-barbaric hopes and dreams. This son was powerful and moved by such emotions as were common among the youth. He had a fiery soul that moved him to action, sometimes without enough thought, and it was this child that the king loved above all of humanity. Among his knights was a man born low; however, he had a degree of character that caused him to gain the attentions of the prince. When the prince saw him, he at first approached him with some trepidation. It was not commonly accepted in this land for one, even a prince as respected as Castiel, to engage in an affair with one of the same gender. Despite these complications though, the affair began, and it was one of warmth and vitality. The prince was consumed by love of his knight and his semi-barbaric nature only added to the strength and devotion that he poured into their time together.

As was bound to happen, the affair was discovered. The knight was cast into prison, and it was within the deepest dungeons that Dean would await the day that he would be sent to the arena. Never before had a case such as this occurred. As time would pass, it would become common for one to fall in love outside of their rank, or station. It would also become common for one to see love such as Dean's and the Princes' but for now it was new and strange to the public, and the king. So to the king, it was a crooked thing that needed to be straightened.

The king sent forth his men to scour the land in search of the largest most vicious tigers that could be procured. He also spent time searching through the long lists of women that would be considered for the role of the bride should the knight choose a fate that was less violent. There was not a single soul in all the land that believed that the knight was innocent. There had never been a denial, only acceptance from both parties involved. These were facts though, that did not matter, for the king had already determined how this problem would be addressed. It was important to the king that the beauty of the arena be utilized in this case. The message would be clear, and would teach the masses a valuable lesson about rank and roles. It mattered to the king that one so lowly as the knight had aspired to love one so incredibly important as the prince.

The dreadful moment had arrived. The arena was filled with all of the cultured ladies and gentlemen of the land. The king and his subjects collected in the viewing galleries. The bodies pressed in under the hot sun, peering down at the dusty grounds of the arena below, sat wondering what the spectacle would be today. Would they see the end of this saga with bloodshed or a joyous union? They waited with the roar of noises that normally accompanies large crowds. Beneath them the doors stood closed, waiting for action.

The door beneath the royal party opened and out stepped the knight. Dean walked into the arena, tall and beautiful. His fair skin and hair catching the light in an impressive way. The crowd gasped collectively for they had not realized what beauty had existed in their presence. No one could question why the prince had succombed to such temptation. They all saw in him someone to be tempted by. And, collectively, they all felt the brief hum of disappointment at the thought that he would possibly not survive the day.

There were traditions that were upheld in these moments. The knight strode out into the arena with swagger and bravado. When he reached the center of the grounds he turned to the king and gave him a bow. His eyes though found the prince. Castiel sat at his father's right hand. Had he not been of a semi-barbaric nature, he might have chosen to stay at home during such a proceeding. He was however, too deeply invested to not see this through. He had come to this place through thought and careful research. He had thought only of this moment, of the doors, and all that fate had in store for the person that was his lover. No one before had ever managed to gain information on the contents of the rooms prior to the event in question, but Castiel had power and will that brought him to the truth. He knew behind which door stood the lady and also the tiger.

This was not all that he knew, though. He knew the lady that stood behind the door, hoping to emerge into the arms of his lover. She was beautiful in a way that was maddening to him. Her cascades of deepest red hair and pale white arms caused men to pause and take notice of her. She was truly beautiful and the prince despised her with all that he had within him. He had seen her in the palace casting glances at Dean. He had seen her pressing her arms up against him in the halls. He had even seen her whisper into Dean's ear, eliciting a laugh from him. He thought at times that Dean had even returned these moments, but he was not sure. It did not matter though, as she was beautiful and tempting. Mostly though, she had chosen to look at the knight. Thus Castiel hated her, and hated her, and hated her until his cheeks flared with red like her hair.

When Dean turned to him and their eyes met, it was clear that the prince had discovered the secret of the doors. The clarity of the knowledge passed down to him in such a way that could not have been any more clear even if the truth had been shouted down from on high. Dean knew that the prince held the truth for he could see in his lover more than those outside of them could. Theirs was a bond that was palpable and profound. It spoke its own language and traversed the distance between their eyes in an instant. This was the thing that he had clung to in the darkness of the king's dungeons. It had been days, yet it had seemed like an eternity. He had not been prone to faith before, but in those long, dark days, he had found faith that he immediately gave to the prince.

The next moment came with a raised brow that seemed to ask the question. The prince gave the answer just as quickly.

His hand slipped off the handle of his sword, fingers spread out long and slender on his right flank. Only Dean had seen the move. The masses held their breaths and stared fixedly at the knight, waiting for his next move.

With determination Dean crossed the vast expanse of earth between himself and the doors. The crowd stilled and the world seemed empty in that moment. The echo of a breath could be heard in those few steps. He did not pause or deliberate. He cast a glance back up into the gallery at the prince, while in midst of his walk. He winked and then he reached out his hand in a swift move and opened the door on the right.

_Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady?_

This is not a question that can be answered with ease, for it is the age old question of what drives the human heart. We must consider, dear reader, what one such as our semi-barbaric prince would consider. What would drive love in one such as the prince? Would he be prone to self-sacrifice in the name of passion or love? Would the temperament of his soul burn too hot with the jealousy that greeted him when he saw the face of the woman that had been selected as the bride? Could he be comfortable with the inevitable loss that was all too real.

Sleep had been a curse for him since the moment the affair had first been discovered. He had awoken in a cold sweat night after night, heart pounding in his chest, the stabbing pangs of fangs all too real as he imagined the dreadful tiger tearing through the body of his knight.

Yet, how much more time had his mind spent dwelling on the moments that would follow the opening of that other door. All of his senses could fathom the depths of despair that would descend on him and him alone as all of the others would cheer and whoop and frolic about in the triumph of his beautiful form saved from the ravages of the beast. And in the midst of their collective reveries he would see Dean's frame kindled with the joy of reclaimed life as he stepped toward his new wife, claiming her with his hands and his smile that should never belong to anyone but him. The flowers would fall, and the music would fill the space. In the cacophony of the celebration, his one sad cry would be buried like his hopes had been.

Perhaps, death would be preferable. For them, heaven would be each other. Could not this one moment of sorrow matter less when one considers an eternal future where they can one day be reunited as soulmates beyond this semi-barbaric mortal world.

Although, the image of such a death, the blood, the fangs with their tearing.

The choice had been made, and there was no going back now. It was clear that many would question his choices. He knew how he would answer when they did. It had never been a light decision. It had been the decision of a lifetime, and it would linger in dreams and nightmares that would forever occupy is consciousness.

There are many that would question the decision that was made that day, and I am not the one to provide the answers to those questions. _So I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the open door-the lady or the tiger?_

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><p><strong>Fav, Follow, Review. If you have a short story that you would like to see converted, let me know. I might need the inspiration.<strong>


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